The Most Real He’d Ever Felt

In retrospect, that was the most he’d ever cried. Not another night in childhood, not another day in adulthood. That one drunken night of confessing his love, when he’d had two whiskys too many with no food in his stomach and yet hadn’t thrown up. Normally throwing up never made him feel any better. But he wishes he’d thrown up, wishes he’d stopped bawling and just gotten the elixir of truth out of his gut.
It’s quite embarrassing, telling the truth so openly, so uneloquently. Really it’s the attention from others that screws the pooch. When a grown man with scruff on his face bawls like a child who’s been savagely spanked, crying about love, about being in love, in the arms of the one he loves, in a room locked so that he doesn’t escape and run into an oncoming truck…. people notice! Well it should seem quite obvious that people would notice. If I could have painted a canvas instead of having to paint with words, the truth would have become obvious ad nauseam. A grown man crying…. How silly, how pathetic, how… how foolish!

Well… only to the one whose sleeves have become wet with this boy’s tears, and to those who’ve had their party ruined by a sloppy drunk. To the bawling, bumbling idiot — to him — this was the most real he’d felt.

Originally published at on August 29, 2013.

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